


Buns 'n' Roses

by SuiteJayne



Category: Schitt's Creek, This is Spinal Tap (1984)
Genre: Crossover, Humor, M/M, One Night Stands, Romantic Gestures, Spandex, cock rock (an apt term that I just learned!), hair bands, nice assets, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuiteJayne/pseuds/SuiteJayne
Summary: Jocelyn drags David to a Spinal Tap concert in Elmdale, where he catches the eye of lead singer David St. Hubbins. Set in s2 of Schitt's Creek.
Relationships: David Rose/David St. Hubbins
Comments: 9
Kudos: 8





	Buns 'n' Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Michael McKean, the actor who plays David St. Hubbins, is a year younger than Eugene Levy. (Thanks, Wikipedia!) So imagine with me, if you will, that This Is Spinal Tap was released in 2004 instead of 1984, making David St. Hubbins 49 for the purposes of this story.

Moira entered David and Alexis’ room without knocking or pausing in her phone conversation. David looked up from where he was lying on his bed scrolling through his Instagram feed and caught Alexis’ eye in the mirror over the vanity where she was drying her hair.

“Jocelyn, there’s _no one_ I’d rather channel my inner groupie with,” Moira was saying. “Unfortunately, John and I have romantic dinner plans. But fear not, the Roses will not leave you in the lurch for your important outing. I’m passing you over to Alexis right now, and I just know this is something that will tickle her fancy.”

She shoved the phone into Alexis’ hand before high-tailing it back into the room she shared with John and closing the door behind her.

“Hello?” Alexis said cautiously into the phone, still scrutinizing her reflection in the mirror. David could hear Jocelyn’s chipper voice on the other end and watched as Alexis assumed an alarmed expression. She stole a glance at David, their eyes meeting in the mirror for a split second before she rapidly looked away. David narrowed his eyes. He had the distinct impression he was about to be thrown under the bus.

“Ooh,” Alexis exclaimed emphatically when Jocelyn finally fell silent. “That sounds amazing, and I so wish I did not already have plans! But David would love to come!”

“No he wouldn’t,” David protested, sitting bolt upright and swinging his legs off the bed.

Alexis turned to shake her head at him, index finger pressed to her lips.

“What did you just volunteer me for?” he continued stridently, ignoring her.

“You’ll pick him up at 9? Great, I’ll tell him! He’ll be so excited! Bye!”

“Oh my God, Alexis, what did you just do?”

Alexis came over to sit on her bed across from David.

“David, do this for _me_. Mutt’s cousin is staying with him and we haven’t been alone for a week and a half. Go out with Jocelyn tonight so he can come over here, and I’ll owe you big time.”

“Do _what_ for you? Go _where_ with Jocelyn?”

“Besides, it’ll be fun!”

“Alexis, I swear if you don’t explain what this is all about I will cut your bangs while you’re asleep.”

“David! You would never. Okay, it’s a rock concert in Elmdale. You remember that band Spinal Tap? Jocelyn and Roland are huge fans and they have tickets for tonight, but Roland is super sick.”

“So why can’t Jocelyn just go by herself?”

“Come on, you know that’s no fun for her at her age. She has to be, like, 35!”

“What? Alexis, _I’m_ 33.”

Alexis made a sympathetic pout. 

“I _know_ ,” she replied, giving David’s knee a squeeze. “So why would you make a middle-aged lady go to a rowdy show on her own?”

“Rowdy? Okay, I’m definitely not going. Call her back and tell her I need to wash my hair.”

Alexis’ eyes got huge and pleading.

“Please, David? I’m going nuts. I’ll buy you dinner at the cafe!”

David merely snorted in reply.

“I’ll book you a mani-pedi at the spa in Elmdale!”

“No way.”

Alexis sighed.

“I’ll let you have my half of the closet for the next month.”

Silence fell in the motel room.

“Three months,” he finally replied.

“Seriously, David!”

“Three months or I’ll call her back myself and tell her I came down with whatever Roland has.”

“Ugh! Okay, fine, three months! But you have to stay at Stevie’s after the concert, you can’t come back here tonight.”

“Fine! Then I expect your stuff to be out of the closet by the time I get back tomorrow morning.”

He flopped back on the bed but couldn’t resist a last retort. 

“By the way, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and above all, don’t do it on my bed!”

“Oh my God. To even know what you _wouldn’t_ do would mean I would have to think about what you _would_ do. Ew, David!”

Jocelyn arrived promptly at 9 wearing smoky eyeshadow and an artfully ripped concert tee from the Smell the Glove tour in ’03.

“David, we are gonna have an amazing night!” she yelled through the truck’s open window as David reluctantly closed the motel room door behind him and approached with the heavy tread of a man scheduled for a root canal.

“Mm,” he nodded noncommittally, donning his sunglasses and settling into the passenger seat with a resigned sigh.

“Rolie and I never miss a Spinal Tap show within a hundred miles of Schitt’s Creek,” Jocelyn continued. “But he can’t keep anything down. He’s already thrown up $50 worth of ribs.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go ahead and stop you there,” David replied. He mentally weighed rotavirus versus heavy metal concert. Did Roland actually have the better deal?

“You look great by the way,” Jocelyn said. “You really made an effort!”

David looked down in consternation at his outfit. This was what he’d thrown on when he woke up that morning: a black-and-white Helmut Lang tie-dyed shirt and a pair of tight-fitting leather pants from Prada. If he was honest, they were a little tighter than when he’d bought them. Among the many essentials he’d given up in exile here was his personal trainer, and he was carrying an extra ten pounds or so to show for it. 

“You’ll fit right in!” Jocelyn crowed.

“Oh God, please, no.”

The Elmdale Convention Center was a squat, windowless brick building. They parked in a ramp and went inside, and David immediately grabbed drinks from the bar while Jocelyn made her way to the front of the milling crowd with an aggression that he hadn’t known she had in her. Thank God, they’d at least missed the opening act and only had to suffer through a few minutes of Spinal Tap’s greatest hits over the sound system before the band took to the stage.

“Hello Elmdale!” 

The musicians pumped their fists as they bounded out onto the stage with the confident enthusiasm of a much more popular band than they actually were.

They launched right into “Hell Hole,” appropriately enough, and David gritted his teeth and put in earplugs. They were right by a giant set of speakers. 

It was clear that the band’s glory days were behind them, but they were still rocking the spandex and long hair of their heyday. David judged that the band members must be in their late 40s. Why not retire and rest on their modest laurels at this point? He drained the rest of his beer and checked the time on his phone, then glanced at Jocelyn. She was clearly on cloud nine, dancing and tossing her feathered hair. He went back to the bar, did a shot, and grabbed two more beers. Might as well get something out of this, even if it was just a hangover. 

As he turned away from the bar, David almost collided with another concertgoer, a young man wearing-- _seriously?_ \--a black-and-white tie-dyed shirt and tight leather pants. David’s fashion sense had to be deteriorating due to prolonged exposure to the Blouse Barn. There was no other explanation. Okay, his whole outfit had to go. 

He stalked back to the front of the crowd and shoved a beer at Jocelyn, who was mooning up at the stage like a teenager as the band struck up “Big Bottom.” David admonished himself to refrain from snide remarks and transferred his attention to the stage. 

He had to admit, the band actually looked good. Not from a sartorial point of view, but in terms of, you know, guys. The lead singer, in particular--what was his name? Oh yeah, he was David, too. David St. Hubbins. The guy had kept in shape. He was strutting around the stage, tight silver pants leaving very little to the imagination. The singer parked himself at a mic not five feet from where David and Jocelyn were standing. He was belting out the song with gusto, currently comparing a girl’s ass to mudflaps. That, thought David, was definitely a Roland-esque concept. No wonder the Schitts loved this band. David granted that rhyming “tuxedo” and “torpedo” was pretty creative, though.

He found himself moving to the music, bobbing his head, moving his hips as he swigged his beer.

Suddenly, Jocelyn was turning to him with wild eyes and a huge grin. 

“Oh my God!” she yelled in his ear. “David St. Hubbins is totally checking me out!”

They high fived and Jocelyn went back to dancing. David looked up at the stage. It was true, the singer was casting frequent glances in their direction through the fringe of blond hair that partly curtained his eyes. Then he strutted to the center of the stage where Nigel Tufnel was launching into a wanky guitar solo. He and the guitarist faced off, headbanging close enough together that they risked a TBI. 

From this angle, Jocelyn and David were treated to a great view of David St. Hubbins’ tight, spandex-clad posterior. David experienced a disorienting sense of deja vu. Had some earlier incarnation of this band been in the running to perform at his bar mitzvah? He couldn’t recall. He’d definitely caught their videos on MTV--oh my God, that was actually pre-YouTube. How did he get to be so old? If he was being honest, he even remembered having an embarrassingly physical response at the time to this guy’s pelvic gyrations. In fact, he realized with mingled horror and amusement, he was getting hard right now at the sight of David St. Hubbins shaking it right in front of him. The singer wandered back closer to David and Jocelyn, his sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead so that they no longer obscured his eyes, and he met David’s gaze and held it for what seemed like a really, really, _really_ long time.

David gulped. His incipient erection was becoming unmistakable. Then Jocelyn was yelling in his ear again.

“Nope, he’s checking _you_ out!” she said with a wicked smile. “I _told_ you you’d fit right in!”

David grimaced. Maybe he should offer this shirt and pants to Roland.

The eye sex continued for the rest of the show and David found himself responding more than he wanted to admit both to the music and to the attention. Under the influence of a couple more beers he found himself fluttering his eyelashes at the singer, pursing his lips in a suggestive smile, performing a few cute shoulder shimmies, and at last letting loose and dancing enthusiastically with Jocelyn. It had been a while since he’d flirted with anyone famous, and while Spinal Tap had come down in the world, there was no denying the Roses had too. There was a certain symmetry here.

David St. Hubbins, for his part, threw himself into every number with total commitment, like he was at the height of his career and not all but washed up, performing in a convention center in rural Ontario. David had to admire that. He was also filled with increasing admiration for the vocalist’s taut biceps and thighs and, in particular, his gorgeous ass. He found himself picturing what he’d do to David St. Hubbins if he got him alone. He’d start by slowly peeling off those impossibly tight pants to expose his ass cheeks like two succulent halves of a peach. He’d squeeze and rub them, plant a series of kisses and nibbles up from the crease where the singer’s butt met his thighs to where its curves flattened out into the small of his back. Oh God, his mouth was watering. _Calm down, David_. The show was almost over and he didn’t need Jocelyn to notice anything untoward happening in the front of his pants (Roland’s new pants, actually, he reminded himself) when the lights came up.

After the concert, they stopped by a convenience store on the way to Stevie’s. David felt he should rehydrate, nor did he want to show up to Stevie’s empty-handed, so he ran in for a strawberry-watermelon-guava sports drink and a bottle of red wine.

He got in line at the cash register and was attempting to compose a message to Alexis that was equal parts guilt trip and gloating hint when he heard a distinctly English voice behind him.

“You and I share certain tastes, it would seem.”

David jumped and turned to see none other than David St. Hubbins in line behind him. The rocker had swapped his stage clothes for jeans and a tee shirt. Traces of makeup ringed his blue eyes and he pushed his still-damp hair back with one hand. He held up a strawberry-watermelon-guava sports drink and a bottle of red wine in the other and smiled. Crow’s feet materialized charmingly at the corners of his eyes. 

“Oh! Got it,” David said. He gave his matching Gatorade bottle a little shake. “You obviously have great judgment.”

“David St. Hubbins,” the singer said, extending a hand that, like David’s own, sported a ring on every finger.

“David Rose.” David extended his own hand. The singer quirked an eyebrow at the discovery that they shared a first name as well as a preferred flavor of Gatorade. Their rings clicked together as they shook; neither man made a move to take his hand away. David felt David St. Hubbins’ middle finger trace subtle circles on the underside of his wrist and a tiny shiver went down his spine.

“Enjoy the show, did you, David?”

“Um, yeah, it was--” _Much more stimulating than I expected._ “--great,” he concluded lamely.

“You’re a great dancer.”

“Thanks--”

“I loved watching you.”

“Um, likewise?”

“Would you two just get a room!” a third voice intruded. “You’re holding up the line!”

Both Davids turned to look at the woman who was standing in line behind them with a six-pack of beer and an irate expression.

“Oh my God,” said David with his most affronted sniff. He started to pull away from the confusingly sexy handshake so that he could pay for his drinks, but found that somehow he couldn’t. It wasn’t that David St. Hubbins was still hanging on; in fact, he was now staring at their joined hands in obvious confusion.

“Er, David, it seems we’re a bit...stuck.”

“Excuse me?”

“Our rings, they’ve somehow interlocked.”

“Inter-what now?”

“Well, look here, you see the skull and crossbones on my middle finger there? It’s caught on the band around your ring finger. And you see Stonehenge in miniature here on my ring finger? Your pinkie ring seems to have hooked one of the megaliths.”

“Jesus.” 

It was true, sometime during the course of their handshake their rings had meshed together. David instinctively jerked his hand back.

“Ouch!” yelped the rocker. “Don’t pull, David, it’s making it worse.”

“I’m all ears if you have any other ideas!”

“Do you happen to have a stick of butter handy?”

“Oh my God.”

David St. Hubbins turned to the store clerk.

“Where’s the loo? I’m sure a dollop of hand soap…”

The clerk, impassive, merely pointed to a sign that said “Restroom for employees only.”

“Well, that’s just great,” said David through clenched teeth.

“There’s hand soap aboard the tour bus.”

“Fine.”

Jocelyn was waiting for David behind the wheel of her truck, and her jaw dropped when he came out of the convenience store hand in hand with David St. Hubbins. David held up a finger and mouthed “one minute” as the two made their way to the bus, right hands clasped in front of them in what felt like a bizarre square dance move. 

“Sorry, lads, didn’t get the wine. We’ve got a bit of a jewelry jam on our hands,” the singer announced as they boarded the bus.

Nigel glanced up from where he was lounging on a bunk with the latest issue of _Jazz Age_. 

“Jam on your--?” His brow furrowed as he looked the two Davids up and down. “If that’s some obscure euphemism for a sex act, I don’t want to know.”

“It was a handshake mishap,” St. Hubbins attempted to clarify.

“I said I don’t want to know,” Nigel insisted, returning to his magazine as his bandmate led David in an awkward shuffle towards the tiny bathroom at the back of the bus. They had to pick their way around the latest incarnation of Spinal Tap’s drummer, who was sitting in the lotus position on the floor, apparently meditating.

To David’s chagrin, the door was locked.

“Oh, Derek’s still in there,” Nigel called. “Remember? He’s doing another juice cleanse.”

“Oh, right,” David St. Hubbins sighed. “This could take a while. Listen, David, I’ve got something in my hotel room that will work. Come with me? I’ll get you a taxi home from there.”

“Um, sure.”

David painstakingly texted Jocelyn, poking his phone’s screen with his left index finger.

_You can go home, band will drop me off_

_!!!!!_

_Dont get too excited, need butter to unlock rings_

_?????_

_Will explain later_

_Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!!! Not that that rules out much!!! ;-) :-D ;-)_

_Gross._ Alexis was right about that expression. David silently promised himself that he would never use it again.

As the driver started the bus, David St. Hubbins maneuvered David over to a seat and they parked themselves side by side. David felt the other man’s thigh and upper arm press against his own. He shifted a little in his seat and glanced over at the singer. Their eyes locked and suddenly David found himself tightening his hand around David St. Hubbins’ again. He rubbed his palm minutely against the other man’s; they were starting to get a little sweaty from prolonged contact.

David St. Hubbins squeezed David’s hand gently in return. His lips parted, but before he could say anything, the two were startled by a loud and sonorous “OM” from the drummer, still cross-legged on the floor.

“Shouldn’t he have a seatbelt on?” David asked.

“Well, he tends to live on the edge a bit. He’s taking a chance even drumming for us. I mean, you know what happened to the last five. Six, now that I think of it,” said David St. Hubbins. The drummer started chanting a mantra. “This one’s actually in training to become a Buddhist monk.”

“Okay, Zen meditation? Juice cleanses? Not exactly the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle I’ve heard so much about,” David said.

“Oh, we’re all very focused on wellness at this point. Nigel is aligning his chakras right now. You can tell. Just look at him.”

David craned his neck to look at the guitarist, who was lying placidly on his bunk, staring into space and snapping his gum. He blew an enormous pink bubble that exploded in his face, clinging to his bangs.

“Aw, fuck,” Nigel muttered. 

“Do you have a spiritual practice, David?”

David turned back to the vocalist. His thumb had started to caress the back of David’s hand.

“Um, well, I did a kind of retreat on an Amish farm recently. It was very peaceful.”

“Oh brilliant, I could get into something like that. Actually, I wrote a song about it, though it was focused more on the physical aspects of farming than the spiritual work.” 

David considered that. Was he talking about “Sex Farm”? They’d played that earlier to uproarious acclaim from the audience. 

“After my astrology phase I flirted with kabbalah for quite some time,” David St. Hubbins continued, sliding his thumb slowly down to the base of David’s thumb and back up to trace the ridges of his first two knuckles. “But now I’m getting back to my roots in Chinese cosmology. I try to channel my qi into our shows so the audience can tap that. I mean, tap into that.”

“Uh-huh--” David was hyper-aware of the slight slickness between their palms. Suddenly David St. Hubbins slid out of his seat and knelt in front of him, still gripping his hand and positioning himself between his knees.

“Sorry, I was getting a muscle cramp.” The rocker slid his left arm onto the seat alongside David’s thigh and raised his face to meet David’s eyes. His irises were almost engulfed by his pupils. David felt his face flush. 

“I used to be very into the concept of yin and yang, you know, the duality of dark and light, cold and hot, female and male,” David St. Hubbins was saying, holding David’s gaze and just grazing the underside of his wrist with a fingernail. “But now I’ve kind of moved on from duality. I’m mostly into, you know, yang and yang.”

“Sure,” David breathed. “Two yangs…”

Just then the bus pulled off the road. It stopped in front of the motel. _The_ motel. They were staying _here?_

Of course they were. 

David St. Hubbins’ room was two doors down from David and Alexis’ room. 

Of course it was. 

The thought of getting spotted by Alexis or Mutt was too terrible to contemplate, and David all but dragged David St. Hubbins inside as soon as the singer unlocked the door.

St. Hubbins unzipped a duffle bag and pulled out a bottle of lube, squirting it generously over their hands before David could even register his surprise and then working it between their fingers until the rings released.

“We’re free,” he said to David with a smile. David felt strangely let down. He accepted the hand towel that the other man offered and started to wipe his fingers.

Then David St. Hubbins stepped very close to David and put his hands on his shoulders.

“Oh,” David breathed. “Okay--” 

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

They kissed. David tasted strawberry-watermelon-guava, and so did the other David. Then they were lifting off each other’s shirts and stumbling backwards onto the bed.

David St. Hubbins plunged one hand into David Rose’s hair and with the other unbuttoned his pants.

“You look incredible in these trousers,” he said, working the zipper down. “But you’ll look even better out of them.” 

David could honestly have melted that cheesy line on toast and eaten it up. Then his pants were around his knees and he could feel hot breath through his boxers. The singer tongued him through the fabric then climbed up to lie on top of him, kissing him and pulling his hair, and David was moaning softly into his mouth. 

Then David St. Hubbins stood up, and in a single, showmanlike move he hauled David’s pants the rest of the way off and flung them aside. David sat up to undo the tight jeans that were stretched over the singer’s erection--unless that was a foil-wrapped cucumber or something. (He’d heard some rumors.) He rubbed his hand over the bulge. Nope, it was the real thing. He unzipped David St Hubbins’ jeans and tugged them down, then blinked at the hot pink mesh thong he was wearing.

“A bold choice,” he finally managed.

“It’s gotta be a thong onstage. Spandex with VPL is a bad look for me.”

David St. Hubbins turned slowly so his ass was right in David’s face, bare except for the line of hot pink fabric disappearing between the two globes of his buttocks. David squeezed them, spreading them a little, and snagged the waistband of the thong to tug at it. The singer shivered. David leaned in and licked up the cleft of that perfect ass, then bit the right cheek gently. David St. Hubbins turned around suddenly and pushed David back on the bed, climbing on top of him again. He plunged his face in the crook of David’s neck, licking and biting his way up to suck on his earlobe.

“I want you inside me,” he said into David’s ear. “Tell me, David, does that idea float your boat?”

“Um, TBH, that idea has been floating my boat all evening.” 

David St. Hubbins made a little inarticulate “mmph” of acknowledgement as he pressed his mouth to David’s again. David ran his hands down the rocker’s back and grabbed that perfect butt to angle their hips together. His heart beat with surprise and a kind of diffuse gratitude that his earlier fantasies were being so freely and immediately fulfilled. This was like some cosmic jackpot after a year of frequent and varied disappointments. He forgot about the extra ten pounds and about the Blouse Barn and about the view from his old apartment in New York. He even forgot that his sister was two doors down messing around with a guy named Mutt. 

It was all good. All of it.

The next morning David woke up alone in the motel room bed. He had known that he would; David St. Hubbins had explained that the band’s next gig was in Winnipeg, so they would have to leave before dawn. David yawned and stretched and turned over to reach his hand into the indentation in the mattress recently vacated by the singer. Then he sat up and stared; the table by the window was covered with red roses.

David got up and wandered over to read the card stuck in one of the floral arrangements: “David Rose is a rose is a rose.”

The line rang a bell. Was it from a Spinal Tap song? A quick search on his phone turned up the answer: Gertrude Stein. Not exactly what David had expected from the lyricist who’d brought us “Tonight I’m Gonna Rock You Tonight,” though come to think of it, there was a certain Steinian recursiveness to that song. Well. There was more to David St. Hubbins than met the eye. (What met the eye was plenty appealing, too.)

It was true of a lot of people, and places too, David thought, smiling and running a hand through his hair. You had to at least scratch the surface to find out what you really liked. And maybe to find out what _you_ were really like.


End file.
